


The Experiment: part VI

by Ttime42



Series: Experiment [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belts, Bombs, Corporal Punishment, Explosions, Explosives, Gen, Other, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does something idiotic, and Mrs. Hudson decides a new implement is in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Experiment: part VI

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I didn't realize I hadn't updated this series since November! It's not abandoned, I promise! This installment was inspired by season three's "The Empty Hearse" and takes place sometime after part five in this series. Enjoy!

"How was the case?" John asked, looking up from his newspaper. Sherlock strode into the flat and swept out of his coat, hanging it on a hook on the door.

"A waste of time." He groused. "A _two_ at best. I only said 'yes' to Lestrade because I couldn’t stay in this flat another minute. Did work go well? No one," he glanced John over, a look of slight distaste on his face, "vomited on you or anything?"

John then noticed a box tucked under his friend's arm. Sherlock gently adjusted his grip on the cardboard and headed for the kitchen.

"No." He stood up from his armchair. "No vomiting, happily‒Sherlock, what's in the box?"

"A…" he paused, searching for the right word. "A bomb."He said lightly.

"A _bomb?!"_ John tossed the paper aside and followed him into the kitchen and watched as Sherlock set the box on the table and carefully opened it up. A silver and blue cylinder sat nestled in some crumpled paper. "Get it out of here." John's heart thudded in his chest as he looked down at the thing. A bloody bomb! Honestly, for a genius, his flatmate was a right idiot sometimes.

"It's not _live,_ John." Sherlock rolled his eyes and lifted it out of the box.

"I don't care if it's not live," John said evenly, "get it out of the flat. Now."

"I'm not done with it." Sherlock said, throwing the box in the corner and sitting down before the metal tube, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"Done? What are you _doing_ with it?" John asked, mentally telling himself to calm down. He opened and closed his left hand reflexively, the way he always did when he was getting stressed.

"I'm seeing how it works." He picked up a pair of pliers.

John exhaled quickly and rubbed a hand over his face. Several scenarios of what could happen should Sherlock clip the wrong wire sprang into his mind, none of which involved either of them, or indeed, the whole of Baker Street, getting out of this alive. "Sherlock, please don't."

"Why?"

"Because it could kill us all! Me, you, Mrs. Hudson‒the neighbors!"

"I told you, John, it's not live."

"I doesn't need to be! They explode Sherlock, it's kind of what they're for."

"Oh John." Sherlock shook his head, pursing his lips in annoyance as if John's fears were completely unfounded.

"Alright, fine." John crossed his arms. "How about this: what would _Mrs. Hudson_ say if she knew what you were doing?"

Sherlock froze, a red wire clutched in the pliers. He peered up at John, eyes wide. "You're not telling her." He said.

"No, I'm not saying a word, but if she finds out about this? _I'm not involved_."

"Deal." Sherlock focused back on his prize.

"One more thing?" John said. Sherlock spared him half a glance. "You have thirty minutes with that thing and then you are calling the proper disposal people."

"John!"

"Thirty minutes!" John thundered.

"Fine." Sherlock muttered.

"Christ..." John went back into the sitting room and scooped up the abandoned newspaper. A sane person would call the police. A sane person would leave the flat. John sat in his chair and doggedly opened up the paper again, his heart flittering wildly and his brain unable to focus on the news articles. The rational part of him was wringing its hands in worry, getting slowly crushed by the mad adrenaline skipping along his veins. The rush of having a live explosive in the flat was oddly intoxicating, and he felt a little bit guilty for almost enjoying it. Stupid, that's what it was, but also just a tiny bit fun too. He stood by what he'd said though, thirty minutes, and it would be gone. He glanced at his phone. Two minutes down, twenty eight more to go.

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock said the worst thing someone could possibly say while working on a (presumably) dead bomb.

"John, it's ticking." His tone was flat and clear, a tone John was very familiar with hearing and using himself, both in Afghanistan and at Bart's. It was a tone that said, 'I'm trying my best to not to freak out but I need help right now because something is going seriously wrong.'

The newspaper was chucked to the side again and John was on his feet, darting into the kitchen. Sherlock was standing beside the table, his hands hovering over the little flashing silver and blue cylinder. Sure enough, an audible, ominous _tick…tock_ was emanating from the body of it and a digital timer on the top was counting steadily down from one minute. _00:59_

"Turn it off." John said, mirroring his tone.

"Don't you think I would have by now if I knew how?"

"What did you hit to make it tick?"

_00:46_

"I don't know!" Sherlock's voice was tight and he frantically glanced around the room, looking for something, _anything_ to help.

John's mind blazed back to his army days. He'd had a very basic course that pretty much covered how to recognize a bomb and call the proper disposal team. Well he was sure recognizing one now, but no team could get here in nearly enough time.

_00:38_

Sherlock fiddled with the wires‒

"‒Don't do that!" John snipped. "That might make it explode!"

"Well what then?" Sherlock said, staring at the timer. He ran his fingers around the edges of the cylinder. "There must be a switch or a plug or a button or something somewhere,"

_00:29_

"Anything to make it stop counting!" He lifted his hands in frustration and scraped them through his hair. "Argh‒there's no switches!"

"How much damage is this going to do, Sherlock?" John snapped, his voice hard and commanding. "Will they be scraping us off the ceiling or wheeling us into an ambulance?"

_00:20_

"Ambulance. I hope." He answered.

Suddenly, John had an idea. He really, really hoped Mrs. Hudson still kept her bins below their flat. The bomb wasn't _that_ big, and if it could be contained in any way at all, it could maybe, hopefully, lessen the inevitable damage. "Open the window!" He commanded.

_00:09_

Sherlock sprang to the window and threw it open. John hastily, carefully picked up the ticking cylinder and scuttled, dropping it down to the alley like a scalding stone. They watched it descend, leaning out over the sill. It landed neatly in Mrs. Hudson's tall, empty plastic blue bin.

Less than one second later it exploded.

* * *

 

They leaped back from the open window and both instinctively tucked and rolled to the floor as the deafening booming blast ricocheted up the brickwork and out into the street. People screamed. A few car alarms went off. The detectives glanced at each other. The building still stood. They were both alive. Hell, the window glass hadn't even broken.

"You okay?" John asked.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine." They slowly stood up and Sherlock hesitantly leaned out the window again. Mrs. Hudson's bins had been reduced to smoldering, reeking piles of blue plastic and melted rubber. Fortunately, the bins seemed to have gotten the worst of it, though there was an impressive scorch mark up 221's brick wall and black soot and debris all up and down the alley. John peeked out beside him and they were both quiet for a moment. The blaring car alarm was silenced.

"That could have been worse." John said, an optimistic light in his tone.

"Mmm."

Sherlock's phone rang, a rare sound for someone who texted so much, and he picked it up, having the grace to gulp at the name on the display before putting it on speaker.

 _"Was that you two?"_ Lestrade's voice crackled up at them.

"Um…yes." Sherlock said.

_"Christ, the lines are ringing off the hook‒reports of an explosion near Baker Street. I had a hunch it was you‒Hell, is anyone dead?"_

"We don't think so." John said. "Not that we can tell."

_"What the hell was it?"_

"A bomb." Sherlock said.

"A small one though." John added.

_"Jesus. I'm in the car. A disposal team is on the way. Stay put."_

The line went dead and Sherlock clicked the red phone button.

"Mrs. Hudson." John said. "I'm going to check on her." He went down the steps and Sherlock, taking a breath, followed.

* * *

 

"Mrs. H?" John knocked on her door. "You okay?"

"Oh John." She pulled it open, looking disheveled and terrified, and accepted his hug. "I was just sitting down to a nice cuppa in front of the telly, when, when…" Her purple dress was coated with a fine sheen of white dust and a bit of dirt was smeared on her face.

She was shaking and John licked his lips, holding her tight. Sherlock stepped into her flat and winced at the broken glass everywhere. The window above her sink had blown out, scattering the room with glittering shards. John and Sherlock exchanged a knowing glance: if she had been in the kitchen instead of the living room, she could very easily be dead.

"The police are on their way." John said. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no. I was in the other room, thank heavens. What on earth happened?"

John looked up at his flatmate.

"Um," Sherlock had the grace to at least _sound_ sheepish. "It was me."

"What?" She turned out of John's embrace.

"I…had a bomb in the flat and it was supposed to be dead but it started ticking and then…went off." He bit his lip and looked away self consciously. The anxious tightness around his eyes and his tense shoulders spoke volumes about how he felt about nearly maiming his former nanny. He couldn't meet either of their eyes and John genuinely felt bad for him. Sure, it had been stupid as hell to bring a bloody bomb in to the flat, but it was pretty obvious that a sore backside was in Sherlock's near future. John ultimately didn't like the idea of Sherlock in pain, even if he so very richly deserved a walloping. Sirens blared in the distance and Mrs. Hudson stared at the detective, her look of disbelief turning rapidly into a pissed off glare.

"Sherlock Holmes." Her voice was quiet, calculated, and Sherlock flinched as if struck. "That is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. You brought this dangerous object into our home for what? To have fun with? To experiment on?!" Her voice was getting louder and more shrill and poor Sherlock was in the corner of the room now, looking very much like a puppy that had peed on the rug. John's heart, beating so fast before with adrenaline and fear upstairs, now softened and melted a little at the sad expression on his friend's face. How was it that he could piss him off so hard and then suddenly make him want to fiercely hug him better?

Cars pulled up out front and the air filled with voices and slamming doors.

Mrs. Hudson strode into Sherlock's space and grabbed him by the ear, pulling him down to her level. Sherlock yipped and glanced up at John, his face turning a delicate shade of cranberry. He really hoped she wasn't going to do anything now, here, with John and all the officers just outside. "We're not done here, young man. You've put yourself in a heap of trouble."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." He managed. She let go of his ear and he jumped up, rubbing the cartilage with a grimace on his face. "Both of you," she glanced at John, "cooperate with the officers. Tell them everything they need to know‒Sherlock, if I hear you were cheeky‒ "

"You won't!" He growled, rubbing his ear.

"You watch your tone, young man." She scolded.

Lestrade pushed through 221's front door and John waved him over, grateful for the respite. The rest of the day was filled with questions, paramedic exams, and more questions. No one had been hurt, but at the end of the day the damage totaled one broken window, chipped brickwork that would need to be repaired, an alley now filled with potholes, two melted bins, and a partridge in a pear tree. Lestrade was less than pleased that Sherlock had commandeered a bomb, and as punishment, told him he wouldn't be allowed to work crime scenes for two weeks.

"What?!" He yelled. "You need me!"

"We'll make do." Greg had snapped back. "You need some time to cool your heels and frankly, I'm doing you a favor by not putting you in _jail_ ….paperwork is going to be a nightmare…" Greg stalked to his car and drove off. The disposal team had patched up Mrs. Hudson's window with thick clear pastic and soon departed and it was well past dinner time by the time all was quiet at 221 again.

"Two weeks." Sherlock muttered, wandering back and forth in the sitting room. "Two bloody weeks."

"That's better than you deserve." John told him from his armchair, attempting once again to get through the newspaper. "People can go to jail for this, Sherlock, for a long time. Do you realize just how lucky you‒hell, _both_ of us‒are to have squeaked by under Greg's good graces?"

Sherlock made a petulant face but said nothing.

"Not that I'm complaining," John said, turning a page, "but I half expected Mycroft to stop by."

"Out of the country." Sherlock murmured absently. As if on cue, his phone chimed with a text. He picked it up.

_Dear brother, was there an…incident, I should be aware of? ‒MH_

Sherlock's scowl deepened and he snapped a reply back.

NO. ‒SH

_Gregory tells me you set a bomb off. Dear me, Sherlock. What would mummy say? ‒MH_

Leave me alone, you git. ‒SH

"Ulgh." He threw his phone on the desk and curled on the sofa. "Lestrade told Mycroft. Now he'll cut his stupid trip short and come back to 'check on me.'"

"You did that to yourself." John said. His tone had no sympathy because frankly, Sherlock didn't deserve any. All was quiet for a few moments until,

"Why didn't you stop me?!"

"What?" John frowned.

"Mrs. Hudson's going to…" He trailed off and buried his face in the pillow on the sofa, looking as tragic as possible.

"I did tell you to stop and you didn't listen. _'It's not live, John. I'm seeing how it works.'_ " The doctor put on his best worst Sherlock impression and parroted his earlier words back to him. Sherlock grumbled into the cushions and John rolled his eyes.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, putting the paper aside and rising. "We missed dinner and had a hell of an eventful day."

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent.

"Want a takeaway?" John asked, ignoring the random mumbles. Sherlock didn't respond.

"Fine. I'm getting Chinese. If you think of anything you want in the next 8 seconds, tell me so I can add it to the order." John picked up his phone. They ordered food from the place up the street so often he had the number memorized, and he didn't even need to look at a menu.

Sherlock turned his face out of the cushion long enough to yell "bao and fried rice" before hiding again. John smirked and placed a delivery order.

"There." He hung up and stood. "I'm going to have a shower. It should be here in ten minutes, can you answer the door?"

"Sherlock."

"Yes, yes."

"Good." John disappeared down the hall and Sherlock continued frowning at the back of the sofa. What a humiliating day. He wouldn't have cared if John was the only one who knew about this whole damn day, but Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade‒no doubt the entirety of Scotland Yard‒and even Mycroft knew that he had made a mistake and nearly blown them all to pieces. It was supposed to be dead, dammit. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he glanced up. John was still in the shower. It was probably stupid Mycroft come to meddle with him. He glowered harder until the door swung open.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson's brisk tones snapped him into a sitting position. She was bearing the bag of takeaway, and she set it on the kitchen table before coming to stand before him. He stood up and adjusted his dressing gown, not daring to meet her eyes.

"We are going to take care of this little incident tomorrow." She told him. "Look at me."

He did. She had changed into clean clothes and her eyes sparkled with anger. He swallowed. He knew that look. He was definitely not going to enjoy sitting once she was through with him.

The loo door creaked and John crept down the hallway in his bathrobe, a towel around his shoulders. He was about to ask if dinner had arrived when Mrs. Hudson's booming voice sent his thoughts scattering.

"How could you bring a bomb into this flat!? You've done some asinine things, Sherlock, but this endangered all our lives!"

John wandered to the kitchen and poked through the bags, extremely glad he wasn’t the one getting shouted at. Poor Sherlock though. Mrs. Hudson had quite the set of lungs. He unpacked the bag, setting aside the bao and rice.

"John." Her voice was slightly softened, though not by much.

"Yes?" He leaned into the room.

"Did you throw the bomb into my bins?"

John froze, a cold sort of anticipation flooding his body. He hadn't thought for one moment that he would be getting a spanking too. "I did." He said carefully. He glanced fast between them. "When I was in the army we had some very basic training in bomb disposal…I thought that if I could get it contained, even by just a bin, that it could lessen the overall damage." It seemed to have worked too, he thought proudly.

"Thank you." She turned to Sherlock. "At least _one_ of you was thinking!"

She kept shouting and John ducked back into the kitchen, relieved. He was out of the firing line so to speak. Had never been in it, actually. He'd thought maybe, just maybe she wanted to give it to him as well since he hadn't stopped Sherlock, but clearly she knew that once he had an idea, no matter how silly, he went at it and hell with common sense. He sat and quietly ate some noodles, trying to ignore the hard scolding taking place in the other room. He didn't think Sherlock's pride would appreciate his presence, even if it was meant to be comforting. Eventually, she left and stomped back down the stairs. Sherlock tiptoed into the kitchen, ashen-faced, and sat down, mechanically taking the box of bao. John was familiar with that look. He himself had inspired it on a few privates in his time.

"Hey," John said, his voice soothing. "It's alright, Sherlock. No one died. There wasn't even much damage. This wasn't the first ridiculous thing you've done and it won't be the last."

Sherlock nodded, biting into the pork bao.

"Did she just shout at you or are you in for more?"

Sherlock raised a brow at him. "What do you think, John?"

* * *

 

The next morning after breakfast, Mrs. Hudson came up the steps. She still looked as angry as she had the previous day and John was seriously glad that he wasn't getting it this time. This time.

"Sherlock, I'll be back up here in ten minutes to give you your spanking. Have a belt waiting, love."

John was stoically pretending he wasn't there, but he couldn't stop his eyes from widening at her request. A belt?

Sherlock blinked. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

She left and Sherlock slumped into a chair. "A belt." He muttered. "I don't have any belts."

"You can borrow one of mine." John said.

"Cheers."

"Just trying to help."

"Help who exactly?" Sherlock snipped.

John paused. Okay, that hadn't come out correctly. "You, of course. I'm just thinking, if she wants a belt and you don't have one, she might get more creative and try to borrow _a cane_ from someone."

Sherlock took a deep breath, nodding. "Excellent point. I knew there was a reason I keep you around." He steeled himself and went upstairs, taking one of his flatmate's leather belts off the hook in his wardrobe and heading down the steps before he lost his nerve. It was just like he was five again and had gotten caught for the umpteenth time taking sweets from her purse. Of course, she never ever took a belt to him or Mycroft when they were little. That would have been too much, but she had taken them both over her knee for a few swats now and then. Clearly, in his adulthood, he had graduated up to something more harsh in her eyes. He'd never been belted. Or strapped. His primary school had a strap hanging on the wall in his classroom. The teacher had never needed to use it, as just the sight of the thick black leather dangling on the wall was enough to keep the children in line.

He glanced over the belt, running fingers over the small cracks in the worn hide. It was heavy, and unpleasantly thick. He approximated that John had had this belt at least three years, and judging by the color of the dusty dirt gathered around the buckle, he'd had it in Afghanistan.

He draped the brown belt over the chair and John gave him a sympathetic smile. "I noticed we're out of aloe." He said. "I'll go on a coffee run when she gets up here."

Sherlock nodded, appreciating John's discretion. He drank some tea and wrung his hands, wondering where she'd have him go. Over her knee? The belt didn't really yield to that position. Maybe just bent over a chair. That would be easy.

Her light footsteps sounded on the stairs and John stood up, bringing his mug to the kitchen and sliding on his jacket. She was holding a paper bag filled with something that smelled amazing and sugary. John sniffed at the air as she walked past and Sherlock's nostrils flared in interest.

She set the sack on the counter. "For later," she said simply. "John, before you go, do you want to give him a smack or two?"

John froze, his jacket half on. He glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at him with wide eyes and a slightly mortified expression.

"He could have seriously injured you." She walked over to the chair and took the belt, doubling it in half and offering it to him. John blinked a few times and eased his jacket over his shoulders.

This was new. He supposed it was thoughtful of her, in a way, to offer him a chance to get through to the detective how dangerous what he had done was via his trouser seat….but, he couldn't. For a fleeting moment it was tempting as hell‒bringing a bomb into the flat really had been amazingly stupid and John certainly wanted that idea impressed on his friend‒but for him to take a belt or any item to Sherlock wouldn't be right. Mrs. Hudson was one thing, seeing at they already had this kind of relationship, but for him to step into that role, that 'authority figure' role wasn't something he was comfortable with doing. Especially since he'd so recently been inducted into their tiny family. The double spanking hadn't been all that long ago, and John now felt like he was on near-equal footing with Sherlock, with Mrs. H in charge. He liked where he stood, and he wasn't going to do anything to mess up his place in the hierarchy. He was also simply Sherlock's friend, and as a friend he didn't feel right giving him a spanking. He couldn't swat Sherlock anymore than he could Mike or Greg.

"I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson." He said, catching Sherlock's relieved eyes. "You've had much more practice than me."

"Whatever you want, John. Makes no difference to me."

He left the flat, jogging down the steps, and Sherlock took a deep breath. By now he just wanted it to be over. He hated all this _waiting._

"Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson set the belt on the armchair and pulled him down into a gentle hug. "You mean well usually, love, but sometimes you just do such foolish things!"

"I know." He mumbled, standing there while she hugged him.

"You‒all of us‒could have been killed!"

Sherlock grimaced. "I…know that now. I wasn't anticipating that outcome."

"Well, anticipate it next time." She said firmly. She let him go and picked up the belt again, doubling it up. His face must have reflected his feelings about being belted, because she spoke again. "I know the belt seems harsh, but you really did it this time, Sherlock, and you're getting a good strapping for it! The desk, I think."

Sherlock took a few steps towards the desk and moved aside the chair.

"Take your trousers down. And your pants."

"Bare?" He looked over his shoulder at her.

"I certainly think you deserve it bare! Don't you?"

He grumbled in a huffy way but obeyed, slipping his fingers into his waistband and taking his clothes down to his knees, shrugging out of his dressing gown and leaning over the table. His bottom felt especially vulnerable and exposed, probably because the anticipation of the new implement was making him more nervous than usual. But not since the time she'd taken him over her knee and put a spoon to his arse had he been bared. Sure, when he and John had gotten the brush before, she'd peeked at their bottoms to check for damage, but she only saved the 'fully bare' spankings for when she was very upset. He was proud of his doctor for taking that discipline so well. Much better than _he_ had. John was tough as nails though. It wasn't surprising that he had taken his swats so well while Sherlock had sniveled and squirmed.

"I don't need to explain this again to you, do I? You know why you're getting the belt?" She asked.

"I know why." He mumbled. He gripped the edges of the table and grit his teeth. The belt _thwipped_ over his arse and he jerked up. Ow. It wasn't an especially hard stroke but the belt felt impossibly wide on his bum, covering way more area than the horrible wooden spoon or even the brush had.

He winced at a second lash, a bit lower down, then again as a third strike stung the meatiest part of his arse. He anticipated the next blow, going up on his toes when the leather snapped against the sensitive areas at the tops of his thighs. Oh boy. He wasn't sure if she had ever belted anyone before, and on some level he was aware that she could be hitting him much harder. It still damn well hurt though! Down his thighs she went, then slowly back up, methodical and precise. Sometimes she'd hit one cheek, sometimes the other. Usually both. He hung his head and kept his grip firm on the sides of the table as his bottom heated up fast.

One snap caught the bottom curve of his cheeks at an angle and he grunted, unable to resist lifting his hand to rub at the sore skin.

"Sherlock." She said firmly.

He grabbed the table again and let out a slow breath, blinking back tears. It stung _and_ throbbed, and he deduced that the flat smoothness of the belt was making it sting, yet the weight of the thing added to the throb. What a stupid article of clothing. He wondered if John's belts should join the remains of the spoon in the fireplace.

Another two lashes, each crossing both cheeks, and he shifted, adjusting his grip on the table. He'd had ten or so strokes and he was starting to wonder just how many she'd give him. The pain of it was really sticking now, and everywhere from the tops of his thighs to the tops of his cheeks was sore and probably red. He growled as another lash slapped down on his left side, followed by one more across both cheeks. Was she hitting him harder? _Thwap_! Or was the cumulative effect of it building?

He startled at another, and then yipped when his tender sit spots at the tops of his thighs were targeted. Her warm hand patted his shoulder. "A few more, love. You're doing an excellent job."

She smacked him in that spot once, twice, three times, four….He took a deep shuddery breath as some tears dribbled down his face, dropping off his chin to spot on the case papers below. Oh his arse was _on fire_ now, the softest parts of his bottom aching and burning. He wasn't sure what was worse, this or the spoon. The spoon stung, and so had the brush, but the belt was a flatter, more spread out and heavier pain. He jerked upright at another lash and quivered, his cheeks blazing warm and burning just like the bins in the alley had been earlier. His breaths came in fast panting gusts and he blinked and stared up at the blurry headphones on the antelope skull, more tears running down his face. He blinked a few more times, bracing himself for more.

"Alright, now." Mrs. Hudson's voice was soft behind him and the belt was laid down over the chair. He exhaled in relief. "How was that?" Her hand was gentle on his arm and he straightened up, frowning and reaching back to cup his bottom‒and instantly pulled his hand away. It hurt too much to touch.

"It hurts." He mumbled. He reached up to wipe his eyes and Mrs. Hudson stroked the back of his head, making the soft sort of cooing noise that brought Sherlock right back to his boyhood nursery, cuddling in her arms after she'd punish him there.

"Have you had a belt used on you before?" She asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

"No." He said, his hands still hovering protectively over the sore flesh. He wanted to tug his clothes up, but the sting was still too acute. "Never in school, and mum and dad didn't either."

"Yes, they were fairly light-handed."

"Mostly." Sherlock added.

She grinned. "Yes, _mostly._ I'm so proud of you, love." She said, hugging him.

"What for?"

"For taking that punishment so well. For taking it at all."

"Mm. Thank you. I think."

"Will you ever bring a bomb into this flat again?"

"No." He said.

"Even if you think it's dead?"

"No."

"Good lad. John should be back soon." She pulled away and Sherlock risked tugging his clothes up, wincing at the scrape of fabric on tender skin. It was sore as hell, but not unbearable. He gratefully wrapped his dressing gown back around his body and watched her go into the kitchen and open up the sweetly scented paper bag. He'd forgotten about that! His nose twitched in interest and he watched her pull out a raspberry jam roly-poly. He gasped, his eyes widening in delight and his mouth watering instantaneously. "Dead man's arm!" He said happily.

She smiled. "I remember that you liked these."

"I haven't had one in _ages_." He murmured, watching her set it on a plate and start slicing. The sugar coating she'd put on top crunched and the dough was soft and crumbly. She slid two slices onto a plate and handed them to him with a fork. One bite, and the pain in his arse was an afterthought as the sweet butter and sugar melted on his tongue, the raspberries tart and creamy in his mouth.

"You'd only give us this if we got good grades in school." He mumbled through a mouthful, eagerly cutting off another hunk with the side of his fork. "Or if it was Christmas."

Mrs. Hudson watched him enthusiastically gobble down the slices, a smirk on her face. It was rare that she could get him to smile like that, the light bright in his eyes and nearly child-like.

"There's biscuits too." She nodded at the sack and kissed him on the cheek as he licked his fork clean.

"Thank you." He said between licks.

"Take care, now." There was a twinkle in her eye and she tapped him on the nose before heading back down to her flat.

"I will." He murmured. He set the empty plate down and gave the roly poly another delighted glance, looking forward to another piece, but first, he was curious. He strode to the loo, baring himself to the mirror and examining. His arse was red, as to be expected, but there weren't any severe lines or welts. It was darker lower down, where she had focused most of the smacks, but there was mostly a pink blotchy stain of pain over his bum, standing out sharply to his pale legs and back.

The front door opened, then John's familiar tread in the kitchen. He made a happy sound‒certainly at the sight of the opened sack‒ and Sherlock listened to him slowly come down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, half a slice of roly-poly in his hand and his mouth full of the dessert. His eyes fell to Sherlock's bottom and he winced, making a sympathetic face at his red skin and red-rimmed eyes. "Ouch, mate." He tilted the rest of the cake into his mouth.

"Ouch indeed."

"I got your aloe." He set the tube on the sink. "Was it bad?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've felt better," he said dryly, "but I'll survive."

"A homemade roly-poly and biscuits probably soothe the ache a bit."

Sherlock snickered. "Mycroft and I called it dead man's arm when we were children."

"Now _that_ doesn't surprise me at all." The doctor smirked and ducked out of the bathroom, giving him privacy. Sherlock stared at the aloe tube, listening to John's tread receding from the loo‒

"John?" He called. The doctor paused and came back, his brows raised in an invitation for Sherlock to speak.

"Why didn't you _mumblemumble._ " He grabbed the tube off the sink.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Why didn't you take her up on her offer?" He asked, pointedly focusing on the aloe like it was a locked room quadruple murder.

"Her offer…?" John frowned. "Oh! When she offered to let me smack you?"

"Yes."

"It didn't seem right." John said after a moment. "She's whacked me too, y'know. I didn't exactly fancy giving you any."

"Why not? You could've had your revenge for nearly killing you." Sherlock licked his lips. If John had died….he didn't even want to pretend to think about how awful his life would be without the doctor.

"I didn't want _revenge_ , you git. I was upset, but I didn't want to hit you. You're my best friend." He shrugged. "I'll leave the smacking to Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock's eyes filled again, and this time it had nothing to do with the pain on his bottom.

"Oh. Good."

John nodded. Though, come to think of it, that brought up another point. "If she ever invited you to smack me, would you?"

Sherlock shook his head fast. "No." _I couldn't. You're my best friend too, John._

"Good to hear. No spanking each other. I can live with that."

A tiny smile graced Sherlock's face. "John," he said, grabbing the tube. "If I ever talk about bringing a bomb here again, promise you'll just jangle your belt at me."

The doctor laughed and after a moment, Sherlock did too.

 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to update in under nine months next time ;) Thank you for reading!


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